Beyond All Hope
by Lady Elleth
Summary: There is one thing that helps Maedhros to hold on to sanity during his capivity on Thangorodrim...


Disclaimer: Tolkien created Arda and all that is in it. I am not Tolkien, though my last name resembles his somewhat, and because I am not Tolkien, nothing that is in Arda belongs to me. Right? Right.

The lyrics are copyrighted by Nightwish and are not mine either. 

_Cut me free, bleed with me, oh no_

_One by one, we will fall down, down,_

_Pull the plug, end the pain, run and fight for life_

Hold on tight, this ain´t my fight. 

_~Nightwish, 10th Man Down_

* * *

The sound of the trumpets had long since subsided and only a lingering echo of the tones was still caught and trapped in between the peaks. 

They who had sounded them were his kin, his people – Noldor – from beyond the sea, from beyond the ice, had not heard his cries, or had not wanted to hear them for the deeds his of family. He had screamed until his voice had gone hoarse and his mouth dry and he had finally been able to fall unconscious.   

The new light had vanished again, when he had awoken after a time of blissful oblivion of which he knew not how long it had lasted. 

His first thought was that Morgoth had taken that light, like all that was beautiful and had destroyed it, or wrestled it from the sky and now held it captive in his dungeons – like the light of the Silmarils which he had stolen. 

Silently he cursed the Stones and the Oath he had renewed on the day of his father´s death… was it not because of them, because of him, that he, Maedhros was here now, and in this condition?

Dark blood, already dried, stained his right hand and arm that was attached to the rock in a manacle of unbreakable, hell-wrought steel, while his exposed body hung limply from the precipice. 

And it hurt. 

The iron band chaining his wrist was cold as the icy chill of the northern wind and it burned with the heat of the fires within the wombs of the earth. Or maybe it was his wrist that hurt so. It mattered not whence it came, the pain was there. 

And yet, even though it seemed almost unbelievable, there was more that tortured him than just the anguish in his wrist, nay, in his whole body: his own thoughts.

In his mind he saw it all. They, his younger brothers, would fall, one by one. 

But even that, even the everlasting darkness would be better than this. 

It would be better to die than to hang here, than to slowly starve half to death or await further pain, inflicted on him by the one who had captured him. 

His hroa would not die hanging here, and his fea was unable to leave; spirit and body were chained. And so he was forced to see in his mind all that could happen… would happen… had to happen to his brothers – and to himself if he was set free through any miracle beyond all hope. 

Sometimes, when the agony became too great to bear, he would whisper words that made no sense to him, but painted a perfectly clear picture of the future, of a strange, terrible beauty of battle, and light, and death. It was the only beauty in this lands, the only thing that helped him to hold fast to his sanity. And he paid for it with the blood that oozed from his rough, dry lips, when he whispered.

Yet as much as he welcomed those words; he cursed them in the same amount. The only thing that kept him from losing his mind also kept him from escaping the pain of his wounds.

As if in an answer to that thought, a wind came from below, carrying sand and dust and dark smoke with it, that made his sore body, maimed with the whips of Balrogs and wounds from battle, hurt more. The thick dust threatened to choke him, and he coughed, trying to breathe in clean air.

A strand of red hair was blown before his eyes, matted with blood from a wound on his head, and sweat. Nay, he did not want to remember the shame of his capture, the guilt that haunted him and the words of his enemy that mocked him, called him betrayer and unworthy of the crown of the Noldor. And so he whispered the very last words again, over and over, and again his lips bled.

_War of Wrath,_

_End of danger and of woe._

Those words, they were telling the of the end of darkness… then they could not be torture of Morgoth, or why would he foretell his own destruction? 

Had someone taken pity on him then, one of the Lords of the West who grieved for his captive child? 

It had to be so. 

It was then, when from the mists of darkness deep below him, a voice floated up with the wind; a voice that sung a song of the Blessed Realm, of the West that was denied for him now. He shut his eyes weakly as he recognised the singer. Findékano, his friend of old, when there was no betrayal and no fear between the Noldor. 

Findékano had come to rescue him? Findékano had crossed the ice and the wasteland of darkness to find him? 

But if the Valar had taken pity on him, why did they not just allow him to die, to pass away?  Why did they endanger his friend?

And even though their deeds were never without a purpose, had he not already rebelled against the Valar? Could he not do so again? 

The lyrics came from his lips like a release, and this time they bled not. Though his voice was weak, he answered the song, he sang for the salvation of death he longed for and he sang for what little hope he had still left. The hope for death, not for life.

When he opened his eyes again, he could see Findékano, finally. He was sitting on a jagged piece of rock, harp in hand, voice upraised to the heights and tears in his eyes. 

He could see it, all of it, for there was the light again. Faintly shimmering through the clouds, but it was there… so Morgoth had not taken it, had not been able to defeat it and thus had not won. He had neither won against the light, nor had he won against him. 

When he saw that his friend was not able to reach him, he called out again, and begged for death openly this time. 

All he wanted was to die and to tell Findékano to flee these lands, for even though Morgoth had not come forth again, or had not sent any of his minions to torture him, they would grow bold eventually, those creatures of darkness who were afraid of the light still. 

Yes, they would come forth from their pits eventually, and then even valiant Findékano would suffer under the lashes of their whips. 

Yet no words came from his lips save a desperate plea to string an arrow to his bow and shoot him. 

He closed his eyes again. The last moments of his life should not be tainted by the sight of wasteland, barren and infertile and hostile. They should be the start of his new state of being, of death and blessed darkness without fear for it.

He heard the voice of his friend from down below, pleading to Manwe to speed the feathered shaft and to recall some pity for the Noldor in their need. He heard that the bow was being strung and then… the beat of mighty wings drawing ever nearer.

He felt someone trying to open the manacle and knew it was Findékano.

First, Maedhros kept silent, but when the iron manacle would not move, not bend, nor break,

he pleaded to die through the hands of a friend a second time.

Silence followed his words, only broken by laboured breaths and whimpers of pain from 

his own lips, when the iron scraped against his flesh again and caused it to bleed once more.

Findékano was working quietly, but he gave it up. 

"There is no hope, my friend, to loosen your captivity save in one way." 

And without having given his consent, without another word, within another breath, he felt a

knife cut his skin, his flesh, his nerves and sinews, until the pain became too much to bear. 

Finally, oblivion.

When he woke up in his tent in Mithrim, almost healed, he could not remember any of the

words he had uttered. They were lost, lost beyond all and any hope to recall them,

their beauty. But he remembered that he would have the light and that the darkness would not 

hold forever, but that it would be defeated. 

And with this memory, and a shadow of the pain in his heart, he swore that he would fight to 

make those visions come true, even if it meant to kill, to destroy, or to die. 

Finis

We all knew what Maedhros did, and what his final fate was – in this story I tried to find

another explanation for his behaviour than that accursed oath. Let me know if I 

succeeded with this by writing a review, please. ;)


End file.
